As he spoke, he himself dropped behind a boulder which thrust its weather-stained head out of the thin grass.  He glanced round and saw that his companions had followed his example.

A bullet struck the stone just above his head and spattered off in a shower of shrieking fragments.  The whole air was thick with lead.  It was clear that they had run into a very strong enemy force, no doubt the reinforcements which had been brought up from the east.

‘Where are they?’ sang out Dave, who was lying in a little hollow with Roy Horan, a few yards to their left.

‘There’s a ravine ahead.  That’s where they are.  Look out!  Here they come!’

The hill-side opposite seemed suddenly to vomit men.  They came sweeping out in masses, hundreds strong.

‘Rapid fire!’ sang out Ken to his squad.

There was no need for his advice.  Every man of the Colonials let loose at once, and few fired less than fifteen aimed rounds to the minute.  The execution was awful.  The attacking force reeled and writhed like a monster in agony.

But the officers behind, in their ugly greenish-gray German uniforms, drove them forward, and though the leading files fell by scores the rest swept onwards.  To his dismay, Ken saw more pouring out behind in support.  The odds were at least ten to one.  It was impossible to withstand such an attack in the open.

Colonel Conway knew it too.  Next moment the whistles shrilled again, giving the order to retire.

Slowly the men began to fall back.  Their steadiness was wonderful.  Raw troops can be trusted to charge, but, as a rule, it takes veterans to retire successfully.  These Australians, hardly one of whom had ever been under fire before the previous night, retreated in such magnificent order as made their officers’ hearts thrill with admiration.

Every bit of cover was made full use of, the men dropping and firing, then rising again, and gliding back to the next stone or bush.  They lost, of course—­lost heavily—­but for each Australian who fell, four Turks went down.

Ken, dodging and shooting with the best, still managed to keep an eye on his two friends, and saw with relief that neither was hit.  Slowly they worked back until they were within fifty yards of their trench.

Here was open ground with practically no cover at all.

‘Come on!’ shouted Ken.  ‘A last sprint.’

He saw Dave spring to his feet and make a dash.  Then suddenly he stumbled, flung out his arms and fell flat on his face.  At the same moment two Turks, big, black-bearded fellows, came leaping out of a patch of scrub, barely twenty yards behind Dave.

Ken spun round, and taking quick aim at the nearest, pulled the trigger. 
There was no report.  He had finished the last cartridge in his magazine.

There was no time to reload.  Dave, hurt but not killed, was trying to crawl away on hands and knees, but it was clear that in another moment he would be a prisoner.